“What does that mean?”
“Well,” she begins, reaching for her glass of wine to finish it off. I take the bottle that’s on the table and fill her glass, emptying the bottle. “You’re composed all the time. Nothing rattles you. You come across almost as detached, but I know that isn’t true because I see the intensity in your eyes. Those who are truly detached, have soulless eyes.”
“And you think my eyes have soul?” I ask with a smirk, liking this side of her. She isn’t usually so outspoken, especially when it comes to me. I’ll blame it on the wine and the late night—I’ll take it.
“They have an intensity I crave to have one day.”
“You can do anything you want to do, Seraphine.”
She smiles sadly, ducking her head and staring at her wine. “My mother used to tell me that.”
“That’s what good mothers do.”
“Was your mother a good one?” she asks, bringing her gaze back to mine.
“My mother was… she did her best.”
“You’re here. Look at all you’ve accomplished. She must have done something right.”
“She did something right by doing something wrong.”
“What does that mean?”
I go into the kitchen and return with another bottle of wine. I finish off the last mouthful in my glass, then refill it. I feel Seraphine’s gaze on me the entire time, and though I hadn’t planned on having a conversation with her about my family, I suppose there is no harm in it. If it’ll help her through her own pain, I’ll do anything.
“My family was very poor growing up. Both my parents worked, but it was never enough. At least, not for me. They accepted that we didn’t have electricity more than we did. They were okay eating peanut butter sandwiches for dinner each night. They didn’t care that we didn’t have a vehicle. Theyaccepted a life they didn’t want simply because it was easier than fighting for something better. Seeing that? It made me want more.” I move around to the side of the table she’s at and rest my hip against it.
“They weren’t bad parents. They were very loving, and I was a happy child, but in accepting what they were given, it made me aim higher.” I knew there was more out there, and I wanted it. Had I grown up in a different life, I may not be here right now.”
“Wow,” she breathes out. “That’s such a beautiful story.”
I smirk, bringing my wine glass to my mouth for another sip. “That’s one way to describe it.”
“My mother was wonderful,” she whispers. “She was beautiful and happy and was always smiling and singing. She’d laugh all the time and make jokes. Everyone loved her.”
“What happened to her?” I find myself asking.
She forces a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Those green eyes are dull now, sad.
“She killed herself when I was ten.”
Those words hit me right in the chest. Fuck. Both parents?
“I’m so sorry.”
Seraphine keeps smiling sadly, dragging her finger along the stem of her wine glass.
“My father was an amazing father before that happened. After? It’s like someone else took over his body.”
“Grief and pain will consume you if you don’t deal with it.”
She nods, downing her wine and before getting to her feet. She leans against the table beside me, her hands bracing herself up.
“He blamed me for her death. Said I was the reason she killed herself. Though, there was never any explanation or reason that I knew of.” She tucks some stray hair behind her ear, her expression faltering just the slightest before she continues. “He needed someone to blame, and I was there. Young and innocent, without a way to stand up for myself. I resented him so much, and I think at some points, I hated him. And I know that makes me a terrible daughter but—”
“That does not make you a terrible daughter,” I rush to say, turning so I’m standing in front of her, boxing her in against the table. “You are not a terrible daughter. He, as the adult, as your father and protector, should have made sure you were okay first. This isn’t your fault. None of it.” Her gaze softens as my words hit her. The pain is evident in her gaze, and it only fuels me to comfort her. To give her what she needs without a second thought. “People don’t kill themselves because of others—they do it because there is something inside of them, something that is broken. Irreparable in their eyes. It’s all-consuming and too much to handle. And yes, sometimes they lash out and choose to blame others. And yes, sometimes it is others who send them over the edge, but there are deeper reasons for it.”
Her eyes are glossy as she looks up at me. “I know. I’ve done a lot of research on it over the years, and I know that. It’s just… hard to believe when it’s been drilled into my head my whole life,” she says, searching my gaze for assurance. “And my father… he did leave a note, which very clearly stated I was the reason he shot himself.” She flinches when she speaks those words.
